


Conscientious Objector

by MajorAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, F/M, M/M, XMFC AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott nods, contemplating it. “Fully shifted or that weird in-between thing he does when he’s trying not to strangle you?”</p>
<p>“It’s a no holds barred fight,” Stiles counters, rolling his eyes. “Fully shifted, dude, don’t be dumb.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conscientious Objector

**Author's Note:**

> "War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today."
> 
> \-- John F. Kennedy

“He’s in  _jail_ ,” Stiles is stressing, leaning over the binder that’s full of Lydia’s schematics and printed out coordinates.  
  
Deaton shakes his head, “he didn't do it on purpose.”  
  
He throws his arms in the air. “Oh, that makes all the difference ” he shouts. “Just give him a governor’s pardon and let him into our _secret_ base full of _secret_ government weapons and knowledge, that’s a great idea.” He stands from the stool, shoulders rippling as he shifts between metal and skin. “In fact, let me get started on making him a welcome sign, have you seen my glitter and glue anywhere?”  
  
“Stiles,” Deaton interrupts, mind reaching out to soothe him already. “I wouldn’t bring him in unless I was sure it was a good idea.”  
  
He takes the binder and stands, leaving the lab.  
  
—  
  
Jackson has the coolest mutation in Stiles’ opinion.  
  
“Do you know how useful it is to paralyze people?” He asks Scott. “I would be dropping people left  _and_  right.”  
  
Scott only shoots him a worried look.  
  
Stiles taps his pencil, done balancing the equations Lydia handed over to keep him busy. “Who do you think would win in a fight, out of all of us?” He asks, turning to look at Scott.  
  
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I’d say you, because there’s really no getting around “adapting to everything ever to survive,” but Lydia.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t argue. She ruled over everyone, and then some. Which is maybe why her and Jackson were so quick to get together; powerful, exemplary people always grouped up.  
  
“Okay, between Jackson and Derek, then.”  
  
Scott nods, contemplating it. “Fully shifted or that weird in-between thing he does when he’s trying not to strangle you?”  
  
“It’s a no holds barred  _fight_ ,” Stiles counters, rolling his eyes. “Fully shifted, dude, don’t be dumb.”  
  
Scott bristles at the insult, still frowning. He leans his head against an open palm before huffing a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know, man,” he finally admits. “It could go either way.”  
  
Stiles runs through dozens of scenarios in his head before shrugging. “Yeah, I guess,” he concedes, secretly rooting for Derek because Jackson was still a dick, no matter how cool his mutation was.  
  
—  
  
“Stiles,” Lydia chirps from her microscopes. “Stop watching Derek run and help me with this.”  
  
He flails, tripping over his feet to screw the extension clamp into place for her, the flame from the Bunsen burner lapping at his newly formed perlite. “I wasn’t—“ Stiles begins, frowning. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
She laughs at him, her curls spilling over her shoulder as she casts a scathing look at Stiles. “You were going for subtle?” She asks, pouring saline into the beaker that has her own blood before moving on to Scott’s.  
  
—  
  
Deaton clicks off the TV in the middle of JFK’s speech.  
  
“This doesn’t change our mission,” he assures, even though Scott’s still trying to learn how to fly and Derek keeps his feet crammed into tiny leather shoes. “Kate will be there, and she still needs to be stopped.“  
  
Derek scoffs. “Do you seriously think we’re ready?”  
  
Deaton’s mouth presses into a line before he nods, “yes.”  
  
“Well, I don’t know about all of you,” Stiles cuts in, addressing the room. “But I’m due for a panic attack, so.”  
  
—  
  
“I am going to die a virgin,” Stiles bemoans, scrubbing a hand over his face as he wallows on the floor of one of Deaton’s numerous studies. “No,” he stops, whining into the crook of his elbow, other hand waving blindly to swat at any part of Scott he can reach. “It’s worse than that,” he corrects. “I haven’t even  _kissed_  someone.”  
  
“Dude,” Scott empathizes. “We can at least get you drunk, right?”  
  
He shakes his head, rolling on to his side. “Nope,” he answers. “My mutation thinks that alcohol is harmful and speeds up metabolizing it.”  
  
Scott makes a noise above him. “That blows,” he mutters.  
  
“I am already aware how much my life sucks, Scott, thank you.”  
  
Scott shrugs. “Maybe if you go fast enough?”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles nods dumbly, willing to try.  
  
—  
  
Stiles is resigned to his fate enough to talk himself into sitting in Derek’s bed clad only in his boxers. He figures he’s already going to die because of Kate Argent or some awry military strike, or maybe embarrassment given enough time to over-think what’s going to happen. He heaves a breath before squirming out of his underwear and chucking it to the pile of his clothes on the floor.  
  
“Hi,” he greets as soon as the door opens, already strewn out under the covers.  
  
Derek glares at him, nostrils flaring. “Get out of here, Stiles. I want to go to sleep,” he commands as he rounds the bed. “Maybe in a few years.”  
  
Stiles turns over, following his movement, knowing the offer is sarcastic at best. “We might not  _have_  a few years,” he says, sitting up and fiddling with the sheets. “There’s a very good chance that we could blink out of existence tomorrow. In Cuba.” He shakes his head with a depreciating laugh. “Fucking Cuba, Derek.”  
  
“You couldn’t have gone to Lydia with,” Derek stops, gesturing to Stiles. “This?”  
  
Stiles laughs. “I didn’t  _want_  to go to Lydia with,” and he stops, waving a hand at himself mockingly. “This.” He frowns, shoulders sagging as he sighs. “We could die tomorrow, okay?” He asks, scrubbing a hand through his short hair. “Don’t act like you don’t notice me practically swooning every time you’re working out,” Stiles sighs and it comes out bitter. “Just,” he starts again and stops. “Never mind, give me my boxers.”  
  
Derek pushed off the armoire he’s leaning on, hesitating before he tosses them over. Stiles nods, tugging them on under the blankets before he stands and leaves.  
  
—  
  
Deaton’s down, head cradled in Agent Morrell’s lap as Jackson’s venom works through his system. Lydia’s crying distantly behind Stiles, her head tucked under Scott’s chin. He can hear Scott making aborted shush noises as he tells her it’s going to be okay.  
  
But it’s not.  
  
The US and Russian fleets still have their guns trained on the beach and Lydia’s jet is torn asunder, gutted across the sand. A hysterical bubble of laughter spills from Stiles’ throat, because he’s sure there’s no way in hell they’re getting back to New York. “Our own fucking country,” he manages out, shaking his head as his shoulders quake. Derek hums noncommittally next to him as his claws and fangs draw back.  
  
Morrell manages to get ahold of one of the commanding officers for a rescue ship, which honestly has Stiles wondering if she has a mutation for suggestion, considering she didn’t pull rank or remind them that they’re technically working agents of the CIA.  
  
—  
  
“I hate the government,” Stiles says at breakfast the day after Morrell leaves, his eyes still tired as he stabs at his eggs.  
  
Scott’s half-asleep, Derek’s gone nocturnal, and Lydia hasn’t been much for conversation the previous week, leaving Stiles to fill the silence of their meals with his diatribes.  
  
He looks for a response, sighing to himself. “I’d rather be a Commie than mutant,” Stiles mutters into his food.  
  
—  
  
Derek tries to take away the bottle of rum Stiles is holding, and he lets it go with a laugh.  
  
“Whatever,” he says, still sitting on the floor. “I can’t get drunk anyway.”  
  
Derek stops, frowning. “You’re not drunk?” He asks, looking to the nearly empty bottle and back to Stiles with a quirked brow.  
  
Stiles shakes his head, heaving himself up to stretch back against the couch cushions. “Doesn’t stop me from trying,” he answers, yelping when the older mutant falls to snuffle at his throat. His skin peppers into carborundum, taking the motion as a threat. “What?” He snaps.  
  
“You smell drunk,” Derek comments. He leans back, letting Stiles’ reign in the reaction.  
  
Stiles hums and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “You grow claws and howl, I can’t get drunk and grow gills in water—apparently it’s a gift, though.”  
  
“I thought you were drunk,” Derek explains. “Before. When… You were in my bed.”  
  
“Oh,” Stiles breathes. “ _Oh_.” He’s shaking his head, kicking his long legs in a flail against the coffee table with a harsh bang, the carborundum returning briefly. “No,” Stiles admitted. “I was freaking out about possibly dying without even kissing someone, but I was definitely stone-cold sober when I did… That…” He can feel his cheeks and ears darkening in a blush, making his mouth press into a hard line. “In my defense,” he utters, looking away with a cough. “Your abs exist and I was pretty sold on the idea that I was going to die the next day.”  
  
And Derek kisses him.  
  
All bumping teeth and awkward angles and Stiles moans despite himself, clinging feebly. “Wha—” He gasps, feeling a thigh worm between his legs.  
  
“Thought,” Derek pants. “Thought it was pity,” he manages, nipping at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, hands delving under layers of cotton to skim over skin.  
  
His digits spasm in Derek’s jacket, pulling him closer. “Yeah, because that makes sense.” He gasps, rolling his hips up.

**Author's Note:**

> Written way back for a Pr0ntober prompt that was simply: "Sterek, XMFC AU."
> 
> [This](http://www.foldedpinup.tumblr.com) is my tumblr if you feel like yelling at me.


End file.
